


three ways to dream of nightingales

by BelaRoseWolf



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Poetry, Sadstuck?, kind of?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-01
Updated: 2013-08-01
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:29:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelaRoseWolf/pseuds/BelaRoseWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A poem written from Alpha!John's point of view. He dreams of nightingales, girls that braid, and a boy with a bloody, broken sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three ways to dream of nightingales

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thanks for clicking and reading. More notes at the end.

I.

i dream of nightingales,  
soft whispers on the wind  
ready to crescendo,  
to fall and maybe rise up again.  
my dreams are nightingales.  
She liked nightingales, but,  
my sister remembers Her alone.  
my dreams are nightingales  
and i am not yet ready to leave them.

they used to be robins  
with their soft red bellies;  
too dark to be rust,  
too light to be blood.

He used to be red,  
cotton armor clanking, sword raised  
to cobalt blue sky, ready  
to strike like a hawk to its prey.  
a crow to its nest.

there used to be a girl  
that would weave poppies  
and roses and lilies, carnations and azaleas  
into Her tangled braid.  
She, however familiar, did not like nightingales.  
still my flighty, flickering  
golden  
dreams are nightingales.

II.

i want to take their hands,  
boy of blood and girls of song.  
i would rise again, laugh again  
beg again  
to be with them and be happy.

we wanted to win, to play  
a game we were meant to lose. to revive, to restart.   
to retrieve and reconquer.  
and when i saw Them, when we were  
together i laughed, and  
my nightingale sang a hymn of fortune. and my  
boy cloaked in red, red almost the unforgiving  
shade of blood,  
blood dried over time  
carried us on home.  
and She would weave,  
braid and cut up words  
in her hair.

i tried to learn to sing, to stretch  
to pray to the gods of  
hawks, eagles, falcons and crows.  
i tried for my sisters,  
my nightingales.  
i left a feather for my brother  
as i was dragged into the air.

III.

i need to hold their hands, again  
to remind them once found.  
bring them back under the shade,  
under the lark’s lantern in the willow tree.  
i wish to hear my nightingale,  
my blood and braid.  
i will shake their sparse rations,  
real beneath the unfamiliar wrinkled prunes  
of my hands.  
and i will remember.

i will remember the nightingale.  
i will hound after  
the run-away girl with the braid and,  
the boy with a broken sword.

i am not yet ready to leave them.  
i cling to fogging dreams,  
attempting to be empty.  
forgotten,  
but if only to see You again.  
if only to braid bells back into your hair.  
to hear your voice, a harsh and melodic song.  
and to take your wrists away,  
to lower the sword and simply  
fly with You again.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so it's a poem written from Poppop Crocker's point of view. I hope you liked it! I'm also on tumblr as leadingMusetta, where I'm also going to be posting this. Thanks! :)


End file.
